


My Heart Will Go On

by poifan_588



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Steampunk, F/F
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-23
Updated: 2015-10-05
Packaged: 2018-04-23 00:56:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 18,189
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4857071
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/poifan_588/pseuds/poifan_588
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Draw me like one of your French girls."</p>
<p>Person of Interest x Titanic (steampunk AU)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. I'm on a Boat

Sameen Shaw was dazed by the sight unfolding before her eyes. She was among the throng of thousands that were slowly making their way into the gigantic ship sitting in the harbor. Her right hand gripped firmly onto a flimsy piece of paper, one that had taken all her money in the world to purchase, and one that would change her life forever.  
  
She couldn't wait to get the hell out of England. She had been living as an itinerant artist in Southampton, but there was nothing left for her there once her mother passed away. Her father was a travelling salesman who died when she was young, and she was raised by her mother, a Persian shop-worker who had followed her father back to England when they met in Tehran. When he passed away in a horse and carriage accident, the mother and daughter had fallen on hard times, and Shaw had learned to fend for herself.  
  
Boarding the ship with a single trunk containing all her worldly possessions, Shaw paused slightly to scan and admire the sleek surface of the boat that seemed to extend forever, blending into the greyness of the misty ocean. In elegant lettering, the ship declared its name. She was indeed its namesake--a monster of a sea-faring vehicle that dwarfed every other ship remotely nearby. A great beast, it seemed to be impassive, but alive.  
  
As Shaw tried to remember the scenery to sketch later on in her quarters, she heard raised voices nearby.  
  
"Uncle Harry. I'm not some delicate flower. I can carry these trunks myself, thank you."  
  
"Miss Groves, this is entirely uncouth of proper young ladies to carry their own baggage. I'm afraid that if your fiancé John sees this, he will certainly be scared away by your brawn. Please let me."  
  
"I don't care, uncle. I'm only marrying him to save this family's money troubles, on your insistence. If he sees me like this and he walks, I really wouldn't give a second thought."  
  
"Miss Groves! You are being extremely unlady-like!"  
  
Shaw smirked, entertained. She glanced toward the direction of the voices. When she spotted their sources, she found herself caught off-guard as her attention was immediately drawn to the elegant woman that was trying to pry her trunk away from her male relative. There was something about her poise and demanding spirit that made it difficult for Shaw to look away. Shaw never had strong reactions, going back to her childhood. Unnerved, she forced her gaze downward, tipped her hat and kept walking, into the bowels of the giant.

  
\--

  
The ship had been on the move for two days, and another night had enveloped the boat.  
  
Samantha Groves stood near the stern, lighted dimly by the ship's electric deck lamps, her left hand on the railing. She'd been swimming in her memories for the past half hour. Her fingers lightly traced up and down the gold chain around her neck, to the small, intricately patterned bronze pendant at the end and back. It was a gift from her father for her 15th birthday. She remembered his warm face as he hung it around her neck for the first time.  
  
_"Now, Root," he said, calling her by his name of endearment for her. "This pendant is very, very important. Don't ever lose it, okay?"_  
  
_"What is it, father?"_  
  
_"This is a key to something that I've spent the past 10 years making, something incandescent and wonderful. This starts up its beating heart. Everything slides toward chaos, but this thing, it gives us poor souls a cupful of order. It's a key to a dancing star. I'm entrusting it to you, my sweetheart."_

She had no idea what her father meant, and she still didn't. But the memory of her late father brought a gripping pain in her chest, and Root looked beyond the railings, down at the black abyss below.  
  
She was so miserable. As a woman in proper society, she had no agency. She did little things, like carrying her own baggage, to rebel against her powerlessness, but it was really for naught. Because in this world, big decisions were made by men. Like her upcoming marriage to John Reese, a rich but incredibly boring and frankly, hand puppet of a man that she absolutely had no interest in. Her father was an inventor, and while he was alive, he had spent all of the family fortune on making strange inventions involving electricity. Now there was nothing left but the family name. Root remembered learning about the magic of electricity from her father, peppering him throughout her childhood with questions, and tears welled up in her eyes. What's the point of all that, if women aren't allowed to do anything with it? Her curiosity, her intelligence, fostered through her hobbies involving light, energy, and metal--once she was married, she was sure, she would have to give it all up. The version of her that John knew, quiet and obedient, was a construction based on the type of women he liked. The type of women that Uncle Harold thought John would like. The prospect of occupying this role full-time filled her with despair.  
  
At the moment, the abyss seemed a tempting option in comparison to the iron-clad misery that seemed to await her. This way, at least her life was entirely in her own hands. As though in a trance, she slowly climbed over the rail, one foot, then the other, and stared down into the nothingness.  
  
"You're not really going to jump, are you?"  
  
Root nearly lost her grip as she fell out of her skin. She turned toward the voice. A petite figure emerged out of the dark. It was a woman around her age, with flowy, dark hair and matching eyes.  
   
"Stay back! Don't come any closer!"  
  
"I normally wouldn't give a damn. But I saw you arguing with your uncle earlier. You've got some spirit. You're not really going to do this, it's just too easy of a way out."  
  
"You're awfully sure about that."  
  
"I am. Now, take my hand."  
  
"I'd rather fall tragically to my death."  
  
"Well, you'll either drown or freeze. Either way, that's not a very nice way to die, but to each their own, I guess."  
  
Root hesitated, as the woman's words seemed to make these possibilities infinitely more real, rather than an abstract concept of an obsolescence. She shifted her weight, and as she did so, her right foot slipped.  
  
She yelped and grabbed onto the railing with all her might. She was now hanging desperately from the outer railing, her left toe barely managing to hold on to the ledge, and with her right leg fruitlessly struggling in the air, trying to get a hold of any surface for traction. She looked desperately at the woman, who seemed surprised at the turn of events, but did not move from where she stood. Her chest burst with fury.  
  
In that moment, Root realized, she did not want to die like this. Not in front of her especially, looking on, judging. Seeing right through her.  
  
"Help me!"  
  
"Well, you did tell me to go away." Root watched incredulously as the woman turned her back to her, as though she was going to leave her there.  
  
"You're really going to just walk away??"  
  
"Well, that's what you wanted in the first place, right?"  
  
"Seriously, HELP ME."  
  
"You did get yourself into that mess."  
  
"I'll give you whatever I have. My dresses, my jewelry, you can have my room, my meals..."  
  
The woman perked up at the last part. "Meals?"  
  
"Yes, I will give you all the food that I can if you would just help me right now!"  
  
"Fine. It's a deal." The petite woman approached Root quickly, and grabbing her wrists, pulled. At that moment, from the far end of the deck, Root heard John's voice. "Hey!" She spotted him running toward her direction as she was pulled up by the deceptively strong woman. Just as Root got her footing back on the deck, John had reached them.  
  
"What were you two girls doing? Don't you know it's dangerous to go over the railing like that?"  
  
Root looked at the woman’s eyes and pleaded with her silently. _Please don't tell him_. She seemed to understand, so Root turned toward John, and stuttered a response.  
  
"I...I just wanted to see the propellers, so I leaned too far out, and this woman here saved me from falling as I slipped."  
  
John turned toward the woman. "Thank you, for saving my fiancée’s life." He extended his hand. "My name is John Reese, and this is Miss Samantha Groves. Miss...?"  
  
The woman shook his hand in response, and said, "Shaw. My name is Sameen Shaw. Pleased to make your acquaintance, although I wish it was under more fortunate circumstances."  
  
John looked over her curiously. Root took that chance to really look at her as well, her heart still pumping from the near-miss. Miss Shaw was dressed in very plain, sturdy clothes that were clean but with slight frays to the edges. She was pretty, in a roguish sort of a way. Root was still angry at her for having the audacity to bargain with her while she was hanging on for her dear life, but she had to admit, she'd never met anyone like her before.  
  
"Are you traveling with a party?" John asked.  
  
"Nope, it's just me. Heading to the new world, to hopefully find a bit of luck. I have a relative in New York."  
  
John raised his eyebrows. "Well, that's rather brave of you to travel alone. How are you faring on your journey?"  
  
"There are people around here who owe me a debt or two, so I'm not worried." Shaw emphasized the word 'debt', and Root took the hint.  
  
"Would you like to join us for dinner tomorrow? That is okay, right John?"  
  
"Yes, of course. It's the least we could do for saving my dear fiancée’s life."  
  
"Um, sure. Thank you very much for the invitation."  
  
"Thank you, for saving me." Root was surprised at the deep sincerity in her own voice. "Well, now that's settled, that's enough excitement for tonight. I think I will head back to my room, I'm still quite nervous from this little adventure."  
  
"Of course. Have a restful evening."  
  
"I hope you have a nice evening as well."  
  
When Miss Shaw parted, John asked Root, "May I escort you toward your quarters?"  
  
"Yes." She was too tired to think of anything else to say. As they headed back, John brought something out of his pocket.  
  
"Would you like some chocolate?"  
  
"Would it calm me down?"  
  
"No, but it tastes good."  
  
Root looked at him, highly disturbed by the absurdity of this gesture by this useless lump of a man. She'd almost died. All he could think to do is offer her chocolate? She almost regretted not jumping into the water, if only for a moment.  
  
  
\--  
  
  
Shaw liked to be out on the deck in the mornings, drinking in the fresh ocean air. As she emerged onto the deck, she scanned the seascape, her hair fluttering in the wind. Today was going to be a cloudy day.  
  
As she meandered, her feet led her to the ship's bow. Shaw went up to the very tip, and stood looking out toward the horizon. There was nothing but the sky and the water, slipping and disappearing beneath her.    
  
"I'm the queen of the world," she said quietly, a smile spreading across her face.    
  
She stood there awhile, as the deck got noisier and noisier with the rising sun. Finally, she turned to leave. As her eyes traveled the deck on her way back from the bow, she was startled by the sight of her friend from the night before. She approached her silently from behind.  
  
"Thinking of jumping to your death again?"  
  
Miss Groves jolted upright and turned about, her face twisted in disbelief. "You?"  
  
"Thought you'd have learned your lesson."  
  
The taller woman grabbed her elbow with some force and pulled her aside. She angrily whispered, "What are you doing?"  
  
Shaw suddenly felt her proximity, and with that, her pulse starting to race. She tried to look as surly and nonplussed as possible. "I'm just making sure you remember our arrangement."  
  
"You're being rather rude, in public."  
  
"Well, do you, or not?" Shaw asked tersely.  
  
Miss Groves was highly irritated by this point. "Yes, I do remember. Don't worry, you're coming to dinner with us, whether I would like you there or not. My uncle would like to meet you." Her eyes flashed as she said this, and Shaw felt it send a jolt of thrill through her. This was becoming a bit more than she bargained for.  
  
"That's all I wanted to confirm, Miss Groves." Shaw forcefully pulled her elbow out of her grip, and put some distance between the two of them, clearing her throat.  
  
Miss Groves looked at her with scorn. "Do you have something appropriate to wear?"  
  
Hmm. She hadn't thought of that, Shaw suddenly realised. She looked down at the dress she was wearing. "This is my best dress."  
  
Miss Groves wrinkled her nose. "Well, you're not going like that to the first class dining room, so you better stop by my room at 5 o'clock so that we could pick out something that you can wear. Upper deck, room 3141."  
  
"Fine by me."  
  
"Don't be late." Miss Groves said curtly as she turned and walked away.  
  
Shaw scowled and whispered under her breath. "Stuck-up, ungrateful pain in the ass."  
  
But as she turned her attention back to the skies, she reminded herself that the food, the food was going to be so worth it, and she couldn't help but smile again.  
  
  
\--  
  
  
At 5 o'clock exactly, someone knocked on her door.  
  
That beastly woman. Root owed her a great, great debt, for sure. But for some reason, Sameen Shaw's particular mix of confidence and surly attitude bothered her, like something was scratching at her from inside her skull. Irrational, she knew, but she couldn't help herself. Root thought about letting her stand outside, but she went up to open it.  
  
"At least you're on time."  
  
Miss Shaw followed her inside, and stood awkwardly in the middle of the room as Root fussed over the clothing in the closet.  
  
"So...what should I wear to this thing?"  
  
Root looked at her disapprovingly. "This 'thing', it's an important nightly social function requiring every ounce of one’s grace and poise, qualities that you likely do not possess."  
  
Miss Shaw rolled her eyes. "What's your problem?"  
  
"Excuse me?"  
  
"What's with the attitude?"  
  
"You can leave anytime."  
  
"You know, I think I will. Whatever's in that dining room is not worth this."  
  
A sudden panic struck Root, and she reached out to grab Miss Shaw's wrist. "Hold on." Root lowered her guard. "Please stay. Uncle Harold...he'd like to meet you."  
  
"He sounds nice enough, but I don't think I'll appreciate the other members of the company, thanks." Miss Shaw shook off her grip and reached for the door.  
  
"I'm sorry. Please stay."  
  
The woman stopped and stood still at her words.  
  
"I’m still processing...last night. I'll try not to be so defensive. Please join us for dinner."  
  
Miss Shaw took a moment to look at her, a direct and unrelenting gaze. Root looked back unflinchingly, belying her rising heart rate.  
  
"Okay."  
  
Root moved quickly over to the closet, and lifted out a white dress with black trims that she'd already picked out earlier. "This one...the length is a bit on the shorter side for me, and it’s made of more flexible and fitting material, so I think it might be okay on you. Would you like to try it on?"  
  
Miss Shaw nodded. Hesitantly, she started loosening up her dress and taking it off. Soon, she was in her undergarments, and Root looked over her curves. The moment felt strangely intimate.  
  
"Can I help you?" Miss Shaw definitely noticed her staring, and seemed rather displeased. Root smiled easily, responding, "I was just trying to measure how well you'll fit into this dress."  
  
"Just give it to me." Miss Shaw snatched the dress from her, and slipped in.  
  
"Here, let me help you with the buttons in the back." Root stepped in close behind her, and started to button up her dress beginning with the one at her lower back. She slowly but steadily followed the curve of Miss Shaw's spine up toward her neck. As she reached the top and worked on the last two buttons, she realized that she was breathing onto Miss Shaw's bare neck, her hips against her posterior. She also realized, this was not going by unnoticed by either of them. The shoulders in front of her seemed to tense up and twitch with each small touch as she lingered. Interesting.  
  
"Now, let's see how you look." Root grabbed her wrist and brought Miss Shaw in front of her full-length mirror. Standing behind her, Root put her arms around to adjust the fabric around her torso. She didn't think it was possible, but Miss Shaw stiffened up even more as her hands roved, smoothing over the dress.  
  
Root was amused. Miss Shaw seemed incredibly uncomfortable, and well, red, as the color faintly crept up her neck. She suddenly felt a sense of power as she realized that her proximity affected Shaw in some way. In that case, let's play, she thought. Convinced that she was in absolute control of the situation, she decidedly ignored the fact that the room was getting a lot hotter and stuffier than before, for some reason.  
  
Looking at Miss Shaw's eyes in the mirror, she leaned in close to her ear, and spoke in a low, languid tone. "Mmm, that looks very fetching on you."  
  
Miss Shaw stood absolutely still, panic looming over her wide and unblinking eyes. Root swallowed her laughter. "Well, I guess then it's my turn." She took couple steps back, and maintaining eye contact through the mirror's reflection, she slipped out of her own dress. Miss Shaw averted her eyes then, and pretended to fidget with her own dress, which was a tad long without being too noticeable.  
  
"Would you give me a hand with mine?" Root asked, as she put on her own evening dress. Miss Shaw turned around, stiffly, and still avoiding eye contact, proceeded to help close up the buttons on the dress, her fingers fumbling.  
  
This was just too fun. Root didn't remember the last time that she felt this kind of pleasure coursing through her. She had to draw this out as long as possible.  
  
"Now, let's see what we're going to do, for jewelry."  
  
"Look, I'm not some doll you dress up, okay? Thank you, but this dress is enough." Miss Shaw finally looked up and met her gaze. A combination of embarrassment and haughty reticence sat across her brow.  
  
"Don't you like jewelry?"  
  
"I don't really wear jewelry, doesn't appeal to me. Not like I can afford them, seeing as how I make my living, but I don't see much need for them."  
  
"What do you do for a living?"  
  
"I'm an artist. I draw and paint."  
  
Root was taken aback. "Can you earn a living doing that? As a woman?"  
  
"Well, sure. It's not much, but I get by."  
  
"How are you going to do that in the new world? Don't you need a list of contact that could supply you with a steady list of jobs?"  
  
"I always find a way. I'm not worried."  
  
Root thought about her own situation. Her earlier decision to give up on her life and her fate seemed so silly, in contrast. She felt an intense admiration at Miss Shaw’s sense of freedom and assurance in her own abilities. She suddenly realized, this woman is a lot stronger than I am. Her cheeks flushed with self-consciousness as she reflected on her callousness toward this woman, and she looked at her with fresh eyes.  
  
"Well, in that case, can I commission you for something?"  
  
She could tell that she caught Miss Shaw off-guard. "Um, sure...what did you have in mind?"  
  
"I'd have to think about the specifics, but we could continue this conversation later."  
  
"Okay."  
  
"On second thought, I don't think I'll wear any additional jewelry tonight, either. Shall we head up to the deck, on the way to the dining room?"  
  
  
\--

  
"So this is the famous Miss Shaw. I'm Harold Finch, Miss Grove's uncle. I'm happy to meet you at last, and thank you so much for saving our dear Samantha from her little accident."  
  
Shaw eyed the man she had seen in passing the first day--he was not a handsome man, particularly with his graying, spiky coiffeur that was far from fashionable, but his eyes shone with intelligence behind his thick glasses.  
  
"I did what I could. Pleased to meet you."  
  
"So I hear that you're travelling alone. What extraordinary bravery!" Mr. Reese, sitting across from Shaw, nodded in agreement.  
  
"Well, thank you."  
  
"Tell me, what will you do in America?"  
  
"I have a cousin that lives in New York. I'll stay with her family for a while, and try to re-establish my practice as an artist."  
  
"An artist! How wonderful. What do you specialize in?"  
  
"I do mostly draw and paint, mostly portraits, but I also enjoy doing landscapes."  
  
"I may have to see your work sometime, Miss Shaw."  
  
"Of course, I'll be glad to show you my work. What work do you do, Mr. Finch?"  
  
"I'm an artist of sorts myself. Well, with electricity and metals and things. I'm an inventor."  
  
"And what types of things do you invent?"  
  
"I figure out how to automate things. How machines can do the same things that humans do, but much better. More precise, consistent, and with strength that humans do not possess. But my longest interest and passion has been in the properties of electricity and its potential for communication and signalling."  
  
"Like the telegraph?"  
  
"Precisely. Yes, but I'm interested in much more than that, particularly in potential uses of electromagnetic fields generated by electricity. You may already know that electricity generates electromagnetic fields, but did you know, that life forms also generate weak electromagnetic fields?"  
  
Shaw shook her head.  
  
"Yes, indeed. And can you imagine, using this as a way to enhance our communication abilities? The possibilities are earth-shattering."  
  
"Are you working on something specific?"  
  
"Ah, yes...I am working on a machine, a system, but I'm afraid that I cannot divulge much more than that at this time. But, you never know, you might be closer to it than you realize," he said, enigmatically. "This machine will become a great tool for humanity, like all successful inventions born of electricity."  
  
Suddenly, Miss Groves, who had been silent up until now, spoke up. "But you said that machines will replace human labor. Will it be a tool, or will it become us?" Miss Groves looked challengingly at her uncle. "Or, will it become something else altogether?"  
  
Mr. Finch looked unsettled. "Of course all machines are tools. They are merely freeing us to pursue a higher purpose in life. Nothing more, nothing less."  
  
"What higher purpose? In contrast to the beauty, power and precision of electricity, human beings are dirty, weak and messy. We are corrupt by design, and it's foolhardy to hope that machines will merely be tools for the betterment of this world."  
  
"Where is this coming from? What do you know of science and inventions, Miss Groves?" Mr. Finch glanced worriedly at Mr. Reese, who looked rather surprised and a bit confused. "Are you feeling alright, Samantha? We shan't go further into this subject, I think it's rather out of character and worrisome."  
  
"I'm perfectly fine."  
  
"I think we'll need some wine. Excuse me." Mr. Finch turned to catch the attention of a passing waiter.  
  
Miss Groves was quiet for the rest of the meal.  
  
Shaw felt rather badly for her throughout. She turned over what to say to her in her head, and finally decided on something. She leaned in close to her ear. "Why are you so quiet? Where's the arrogant she-devil from earlier?"  
  
She looked at her mournfully. "Why do you care?"  
  
"It's a bit unsettling, this change."  
  
"Is that all?" A thin smile crept onto her lips. "Do you like being pushed around?"  
  
"No," Shaw said emphatically. "You're a bit quiet, that's all. It makes me uncomfortable."  
  
"Mmm. What can I do to make you comfortable? What I was doing earlier, in my room?" Miss Groves reached out from under the table and sliding her fingers around Shaw's waist, stroked her side with her thumb.  
  
Shaw jumped. Seething, she kicked her under the table. Smiling broadly now, Miss Groves pulled her hand away.  
  
"So when should I give this damn dress back?"  
  
"My, you're in a hurry to take it off for me."  
  
Shaw stared at her viciously. "I can stab you with my dessert fork."  
  
Miss Groves smiled. "Follow me to my room after we're done here." She leaned in closer, and put her hand lightly on Shaw's thigh. "I'll help you out of this dress, if you help me with mine."  
  
Shaw tensed up considerably, as the muscles all around the spot Samantha was touching was lit on fire, and her head buzzed mercilessly. She barely had the presence of mind to swat Samantha's hand away from her leg.  
  
"Fine."


	2. 3-Way (The Golden Rule)

Root was pleased with herself, but the feeling seemed fleeting, and she was desperate to hold on to it.  
  
She'd teased Miss Shaw mercilessly as a way to get out of her own head. It was good that Miss Shaw was there, or else it felt like she could have been consumed by the whirlpool of her own mind. It felt good to feel the warmth of someone other than herself in her fingertips. Getting a reaction out of her seemed like confirming that she was being listened to, that she was real.  
  
Root continued to gaze at Miss Shaw, hoping to continue to grasp on to that feeling. Her guest was moving stiffly and deliberately as she was throughout dinner. When the dessert arrived, Miss Shaw very carefully watched the rest of the table start on theirs, as though to confirm the right way to eat it, before starting on hers. Root wasn't quite paying attention to her before, but after seeing this, she was rather happy with how she'd fared. And she rather liked how Miss Shaw ate her food--she seemed to truly savor each and every bite, oblivious to almost everything else. Root felt a warmth pool at the bottom of her stomach, just watching her eat. _I wish I knew what it felt to savor something like that._  
  
Her appreciation of Miss Shaw was interrupted by an approach of someone across the table. A man stooped in and put his hand firmly on Uncle Harold's shoulders, interrupting him and John's conversation about investments.  
  
"Mr. Finch, I'm glad to have ran into you here. Mr. Reese, good evening to you as well." It was an older gentleman with a face criss-crossed with thousands of harsh wrinkles. His mouth was smiling, but his eyes weren't.    
  
Uncle Harold's features froze, alarmed. "Mr. Greer. Good evening." He looked around the table, and introduced him to both Root and Miss Shaw.  
  
"When you are finished with your dessert, would you and Mr. Reese like to join me and my colleagues at the cigar lounge again? I have some great Cuban cigars that I would love to share with you. And perhaps we could carry on our conversations from yesterday, about you and my employer, Decima Technologies."  
  
"Tonight, I'm afraid I cannot join you. I have some previous post-dinner engagements."  
  
"That's a shame. How about tomorrow evening, then?"  
  
"Mr. Greer. I believe I have made myself rather clear yesterday. As a rule, I do not engage in business with weapons manufacturers. I am rather set on using my work with electricity for civilian and municipal uses only. I'm afraid there's not much to talk about between us."  
  
"Mr. Finch, it would just be a friendly, casual conversation between men, and nothing more. Please do reconsider my offer."  
  
"I will, Mr. Greer, and when I do change my mind, I will let you know. Enjoy your cigars, Mr. Greer."  
  
"Well, you know where I'll be if you change your mind."  
  
The table watched in unease as Mr. Greer walked away.  
  
"He is certainly a cheerful fellow," John said dryly.  
  
"Yes, as cheerful as a dried up flowers in a funeral home." Although he joked, Uncle Harold's features seemed harsh, unusual.  
  
"It's a good thing I'm not in weapons manufacturing. I might have to find new use for my money, instead of investing in you."  
  
"I can't see you dealing weapons, Mr. Reese. It doesn't suit you."  
  
"I wouldn't be getting out of the sugar business anytime soon."  
  
"Speaking of something sweet, I have some fine vintage port in my quarters. Would you, John, and would you ladies like to join me?" Uncle Harold asked.  
  
Root responded, "I'm not in the mood for port, Uncle Harold. I think I will retire to my room."  
  
"I've had a wonderful evening and a great meal, thank you very much. But I'm afraid I must be going as well," said Miss Shaw.  
  
"That leaves just you, John?"  
  
"I can do with a bit of port."  
  
"Right, then. May we escort you to your quarters first, ladies?"  
  
"That's quite alright for me. I'll find my own way back." Root stood, and everyone else rose as well.  
  
"I'm fine too, thank you."  
  
As the men parted, Root touched Miss Shaw's elbow.  
  
"So, shall we head to my room, Miss Shaw?"  
  
Miss Shaw shook her off. "Yeah, I need to get out of this dress."  
  
Root looked at her curiously. "Why are you in such a hurry to get out of it?"  
  
"First of all, I don't like to owe anyone anything. Secondly, I have an evening engagement."  
  
"Oh, what kind?"  
  
"None of your business."  
  
"Hope it's nothing too scandalous," Root said mischievously.  
  
"No," Miss Shaw said emphatically. "I have a real party to go to, and it doesn't involve fancy dress."  
  
"Hmm, sounds fun. Is this an invitation?"  
  
Miss Shaw glared. "Absolutely not."  
  
  
\--

  
Shaw was very annoyed. Miss Groves blackmailed her with food to letting her tag along, which was just really, really wrong. But she almost forgot about that when she saw that the party was already in full swing. People were dancing, food and liquor was flowing, and the music was hopping. Shaw looked at Miss Groves, who wore a smile like that of a child discovering candy for the first time. It was somewhat of a relief to see her smile like that, particularly after her gloominess for most of dinner. Well, it was a relief because she didn't want a grump following her around all evening. Yeah, that was it.  
  
At that moment, she heard a loud, familiar voice. "Hey, you made it Sameen! How was your fancy dinner and all that?"  
  
"Mr. Fusco. It was good. Enjoying the party?"  
  
"Yep, think I've met someone, name's Rhonda. She's with her friends now chatting about me, so don't look too friendly, got that?" Mr. Fusco glanced at the woman next to her. "And who's this? A friend?"  
  
"Mr. Fusco, may I introduce you to Miss Samantha Groves? Miss Groves, this is Mr. Lionel Fusco."  
  
"Pleased to meet you."  
  
"Pleasure's all mine. But seriously, don't get too close now, Rhonda's watching."  
  
"Mr. Fusco, you are drunk."  
  
"And you're not drunk enough. Go get some pints for you and your friend. I, will see you later. Wish me luck!"  
  
Seeing Mr. Fusco saunter over to a group of women, Shaw realized that she indeed was thirsty. "Let's go get some drinks." Shaw eagerly headed toward the table serving ales, and looking back, saw Miss Groves following along, her lips parted in wonder, her eyes roaming in every direction. Shaw felt her heart quicken.  
  
As she grabbed two glasses of pint and handed the other to Miss Groves, she heard another familiar voice calling her. "Hey, Sameen!"  
  
"Tomas!" Shaw broke into a smile as he walked over. Miss Groves leaned in immediately and whispered, "Is that a smile on your face, or are you having facial convulsions?" Shaw sharply elbowed her, keeping up that same smile for Tomas to see.  
  
"You look beautiful, Sameen. That dress looks stunning."  
  
"Thank you." She felt her hands brushing her bangs away from her face.  
  
"Aren't you going to introduce me?" She definitely should have left Miss Groves behind.  
  
"Tomas, this is Miss Samantha Groves. Miss Groves, this is Tomas Koroa."  
  
"Nice to meet you." Tomas smiled politely at Miss Groves, and turned his attention back to her.  
  
"I've been itching to dance. Join me?" Tomas's eyes sparkled, but Shaw couldn't concentrate on them because Miss Groves was suppressing a laugh with an extremely ridiculous expression on her face. This woman has a problem.  
  
"That sounds great, but Miss Groves and I have something to talk about first. Save me a dance for later, okay?"  
  
"Sure, Sameen, I'll be waiting!" He left to get his own pint of ale.    
  
Sameen looked at Miss Groves, and growled, "Look, what's your beef with me?"  
  
"I don't have a beef with you." Miss Groves smiled wickedly and said, "I think Tomas has got some beef for you."  
  
"Leave Tomas out of it!"  
  
"Why don't you go join him? He is rather good-looking," Miss Groves said, teasingly.  
  
"Okay, no more."  
  
"Ooh, Tomas is being naughty. He just started dancing with some other woman."  
  
"Where?" Shaw turned around, her eyes bulging slightly.  
  
"Made you look."  
  
Shaw's jaw dropped.  
  
"Okay, I know what'll shut you up. C'mon." Shaw got up, grabbed her wrist and pulled her toward the dancers and the music.  
  
Miss Groves followed her looking unsure, with that smug look finally off of her face. _Hah._ "I don't know the steps."  
  
"Just follow me, but do the opposite, okay? I'll lead. Don't think."  
  
Miss Groves was awkward at first, but as she picked up the steps, she grinned at Shaw. Shaw just shot her an annoyed look. Nope, she was not enjoying this at all.  
  
As the dancing went on, and the steps became automatic, Shaw began to feel distinctly the exact distance of her body from Miss Groves at all times, and she felt the radiating heat of their bodies merge as their breaths got shallower and faster along with the music. With Miss Groves in her arms, looking into the warmth of her eyes, Shaw realized then that she was smiling again, and that at that moment, she didn't much care if Miss Groves saw her smiling or not.

  
\--

  
As the music stopped so that the musicians to get a break, Miss Shaw, still clutching Root's hand, leaned in and whispered, "Want to get some fresh air out on the deck?"  
  
"Yes, let's."  
  
They came out of the carriage, faces still flushed, and continuing to hold each other's hands. They settled against the carriage wall, standing and looking up at the night sky. Root said, her face still grinning, "I've never danced with a woman before."  
  
"Can't say the same, Miss Groves."  
  
"Okay. let's just drop that formality now. It's ridiculous. We've danced together. Call me Root."  
  
"Root?"  
  
"Yeah."  
  
"Sameen, or Shaw, if you'd like."  
  
"So, Sameen, you've danced with other women?"  
  
"Yeah sure, why not?"  
  
"Well they are quite strict about rules about men and women, where I'm from."  
  
"Do you think that's right?"  
  
"That's how it is, and always has been."  
  
"But society's always changing. Especially now, with all the new science. Like what your uncle's working on."  
  
"Yes, but the old social divisions still exist. Upper class, working class, women, men, it's always going to be the same. We are designed this way."  
  
"Is that what you meant at dinner? About machines and people?"  
  
"That's certainly a part of it." Root was quiet now.  
  
"Machines and electricity are not always beautiful, you know. Sometimes they can destroy."  
  
"Under _people_ , they can."  
  
Shaw looked out toward the horizon. "Look, I've lived in all sorts of places, met all sorts of people. There are some good and some bad, but you always have to take the good with the bad. There _is_ good, though..."  
  
Shaw turned to look at Root. "...so don't give up yet, okay?"  
  
Root returned her gaze. After a moment that seemed like an eternity, Root leaned in toward Shaw, her face stopping inches away from Shaw's. She was staring at Shaw's lips. When Shaw didn't move away, Root leaned in and kissed her.  
  
It was a lingering kiss. As their lips parted, Root became suddenly aware of what she'd done. Without another word, Root turned away and quickly retreated toward her room. She did not dare look back.  
  
  
\--  
  
  
Root was walking in a cavernous, empty room, with no end in sight, and she was looking for someone, or something. She sensed that whatever she was looking for was something sublime, both horrifying and rapturous, but always infinite, and she was comforted by the fact that it existed, even though she didn't know what it was. She kept on walking and moving along, although she could not feel her feet make contact with the floor.

  
  
_Riiiiiiiing._

  
  
_Riiiiiiiing._

  
  
_Riiiiiiiing._

  
  
A noise, in the distance.

 

_Riiiiiiiing._

  
  
_Riiiiiiiing._

  
  
It did not seem to stop. Root frowned, and listened, concentrating. As she focused on the sound, her vision became increasingly hazy, and the soft light surrounding her faded away, replaced by darkness accented by dark outlines. Slowly, these outlines became sharper, and she blinked twice.  
  
She was lying in her bed, underneath the covers, her right hand clutching the bronze pendant that hung at her chest.

 

_Riiiiiiiing._

 

_Riiiiiiiing._

 

What was that bothersome noise though? Then, she realized, the room telephone.  
  
Root got up and stumbled over to the telephone stand, and lifted the earpiece to her right ear and the speaker to her lips.    
  
"This...this is Samantha Groves."  
  
"Can you hear me?"  
  
"Yes. Who is this?"  
  
"It's me, John."  
  
Root's blood pressure went up a thousand percent. She checked her room clock, which read half-past five.  
  
Coldly as an icebox, she responded. "My dear John, what, may I ask, are you thinking, calling me on the telephone this early in the morning?"  
  
"I want to show you something. Meet me on the deck near the bow in thirty minutes."  
  
"John, what is this regarding, please?"  
  
"Just meet me there, Samantha darling. You will see." _*Click*_  
  
Root stood there, not believing what just happened. Then she became furious. What in the world is this big lump of coal up to? Whatever it is, she was going to let him know how she felt in person. She put down the telephone pieces, and proceeded to dress herself.  
  
  
\--  
  
  
The sun was rising behind her, at the direction of the stern, and the sky was just starting to turn. She spotted John ahead and approached, huddling herself in the cold. John flashed his awkward turtle smile at her. She did not know whether she's ever liked him less than now.  
  
"Good morning, Samantha."  
  
"Good morning indeed. What business do we have this early in the morning?"  
  
"I want to show you something. Close your eyes."  
  
"Why would I want to do that, may I ask?"  
  
"Samantha. Do you trust me?"  
  
_No_ , she thought. But she had to at least put on an appearance, unfortunately. So she closed her eyes. Then something occurred to her, so she opened them again, looking at him sternly.  
  
"Under no circumstances is it okay to plant surprise kisses, do you understand?"  
  
"It's not that, trust me."  
  
Root shot him a warning look, and closed her eyes again. His hand on her arms, he escorted her forward, until she felt herself come up against the railing. At that point, John gently unfolded her arms and held either of them outstretched with his.  
  
"Now, open your eyes."  
  
Root was staring into the horizon, with the ocean rushing past below her.  
  
_Unbelievable._  
  
Horrified, she quickly gathered her arms and grabbed onto the railing in front of her, then pushed herself away from the edge.  
  
"What do you think you're doing John? Are you trying to kill me?"  
  
"No, I was just trying to show you what it felt to fly."  
  
She was livid and absolutely dumbfounded. "After I almost fell to my death from the ship only a couple days ago, how on earth can you think that this was a good idea?"  
  
Root decided then, that she was done with this man. Uncle Harold's feelings be damned.  
  
"John. I can't do this, us."  
  
"I'm sorry Samantha. I thought you might like it." John was his usual lumpy, inexpressive self, but he looked a bit forlorn. Root felt some pity for him, but she had to carry on for both of their sakes.  
  
"John, I can't marry you."  
  
John looked at her with a tad more feeling in his eyes now, which started to get a little misty.  
  
"But why?"  
  
"Because, John, we are not compatible. I'm not...who you think I am."  
  
"Are you not Samantha Groves?"  
  
"I am Samantha Groves, but what I mean is, I don't think you know me at all. The version of me that you've seen throughout our acquaintance and engagement, is one that we, Uncle Harold and I, thought you would appreciate. I'm just not that person, John."  
  
"What do you mean?"  
  
"I...I'm not the mousy, quiet woman that you've come to know, playing the piano and knitting and doing these things that I frankly find incredibly boring. I'm vocal about my opinions, and I actually like playing with machines and electricity more than anything else."  
  
"That's...okay."  
  
"The thing is, John, I'm not okay with us. I just...don't think I can marry you. I think I will be incredibly unhappy. I'm very sorry."  
  
John just stood there, looking more human to her than he ever did before.  
  
"Why did you agree to marry me?"  
  
"Because, honestly John, Uncle Harold and I, we are broke. We needed the income."  
  
At that very moment, Uncle Harold called out to them. "There you both are. I've called you both about breakfast, but no one answered."  
  
They both turned toward Uncle Harry. He stopped in his tracks when he sensed the gravity of the situation.  
  
John looked at him with searing and searching eyes. "Harold. Is this true, that you've arranged the marriage between me and your niece because of my money?"  
  
Uncle Harold looked undone. And for once in his life, Root noted, he had nothing to say.  
  
"Harold, can you deny this?"  
  
When he encountered only silence, John spoke up again, his heart seemingly in pieces.  
  
"I'm deeply disappointed in you, Harold. I considered you a good friend. Your intelligence and your council were valuable to me."  
  
"You are a good friend, John. You are valuable to me, too."  
  
"I still believe that you have a good heart. But I think, our friendship has come to an end."  
  
As much as Root had disliked John until now, she could not say the same for this moment. Those feelings of resentment, they dissipated as she looked on at this crushed soul.  
  
"Goodbye, Harold. Goodbye, Samantha." John Reese walked away from them without looking back.

  
\--

  
Shaw was very confused.  
  
She sat, dazed, at the meal carriage, absent-mindedly plunking her spoon repeatedly into the cold porridge in front of her. She had slept horribly, and although she was usually an early morning riser, she'd risen today at 9am. Even when she'd woken up, she continued to lie in her bunk, looking up at the low ceiling. She was actually late to breakfast, and almost missed the meal window. But even with the food in the bowl in front of her, it was as though she forgot how to eat.  
  
She kept playing last night's scenes in her mind, like moving pictures.  
  
_Did that really happen?_  
  
_That really happened._  
  
The thing is, she'd always been the initiator in these...exchanges, and not the recipient, at least when it came to women, anyway. She was in a very, very strange territory.  
  
Was Root toying with her?  
  
One thing she did know, is that the prospect of not seeing her again left a dull ache in her chest.  
  
"Hey, missed you earlier, sunshine."  
  
"Hello, Mr. Fusco."  
  
"What happened with you and Tomas last night? I thought you were going to make your move...or should I say, 'let' him make his moves on you."  
  
"I...got sidetracked."  
  
"You mean your friend? Saw you dancing with her. She could have found a partner easily. Why didn't you go have fun with Tomas?"  
  
"I think that's been postponed."  
  
"Tomas is a catch. I mean, even I think he's handsome. Plus he's got a steady income. And he's been eyeing you since day one."  
  
"I know."  
  
"You haven't found a new guy yesterday, have you? That would be fast, even for you."  
  
"No."  
  
"So what's going on?"  
  
"I have no idea."  
  
"Is some guy bothering you, or worse, playing with you? I'll kick their ass over to the moon."  
  
"You know I can take care of myself. Thank you, but don't worry about me."  
  
"Yeah I know, I've seen what you do to idiots, but you just say the word. Okay?"  
  
"Sure, Mr. Fusco." Shaw wanted to talk about anything else but that now. "How did things go with Rhonda?"  
  
"Oh she's mad at me right now." Mr. Fusco launched into a tale about Rhonda, her friends, and some Scandinavian butcher involving a goat, a violin, and one very unappetising apple. Shaw tuned out somewhere in the middle, and started replaying those same scenes in her mind, over and over again.  
  
There was definitely a point where Root seemed to be using her wiles to control her. But somewhere, it stopped being a push-and-pull thing, and it started seeming like something more genuine.  
  
But where would that lead? She was a woman with a fiancé, for god's sake, one that was on the same boat with them, floating in the middle of thousands of square miles of water with no room for escape, no place to hide. Particularly if things went sideways.  
  
It was going to be messy, in any case. And Sameen Shaw did not do messy.  
  
So she decided, we're just going to pretend that didn't happen. At least, she was. She just had to ignore the unpleasant sensations for awhile, press them down, down until she could feel like everything was back the way it should be.  
  
It was something that she'd had a lot of practice in.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 2: This chapter was originally way too long, so I cut it into two, with the second part coming shortly. I should say, there were telephones on the Titanic in some of the first class rooms. 
> 
> The titles of the chapters, by the way, are The Lonely Island songs.
> 
> *Note: I've edited this chapter, shortened the beginning dialogue a little bit, because frankly the next chapter is a bit more dense, and I wanted to match that somewhat. It's basically still the same.


	3. I Just Had Sex

Uncle Harold was trying to keep it together, but Root knew he was devastated. Over the past year, he had developed a strong friendship with John. Their acquaintance was at first a ploy to get John to ask Root's hand in marriage, but over time, it had turned into a genuine mutual respect. They bonded over their respective military experiences in southern Africa against the Dutch, with Uncle Harold having fought them in the First Boer War and John in the Second Boer War. The two men disagreed on their views toward warfare, with Uncle Harold having turned entirely against war after his own experience (during which he'd earned his old neck injury and his limp), and John seeing it as a necessary evil, but their shared experiences had nonetheless brought them together.

The three of them, Uncle Harold, John and Root, were on their way to New York, to test out a project that Uncle Harold had been working on intensively for the past several years. Root did not know the details, but John was supposed to provide the backing to implement the project in the US. After the events of this morning, however, Uncle Harold was not only short of a friend, but also short of an investor, too.

He was now staring out into the ocean with his hands on the railings, his face consumed with regret.

"I'm sorry, Uncle Harold..."

"No, it's entirely my fault. I put us in this situation when I asked you to consider marrying John when I still didn't know him well, to secure his financial backing. Unfortunately, that move turned out to be entirely unnecessary, and today, it became the very thing that took away John's support.”

"I also agreed to it at the time, Uncle Harold. I wanted to save father's house from creditors, and John was able to help with that. It's just that...I realized this morning, over the past couple days, actually, that I've been incredibly unhappy, and that if I do marry John that I will be even more so."

"I'm sorry we had to come to this."

They both looked out into the water.

"So what happens now, with your project?"

"I'll just have to find another backer..."

"Will you be reconsidering Decima Technologies?"

"No. I'll have to find another."

"Why were they so interested in your work?"

"They've somehow found out about my project, and they want to turn it into a weapon."

"It's a type of an electromagnetic field scanner, correct?"

"No," Uncle Harold said, looking around to ensure that they were alone. "It's much more than that. It operates under two categories of communication. Under the first category, it detects adjustable levels of weak electromagnetic fields in life forms. So to put it in simple terms--it detects movements and biomass of specific organisms, including people. Then it calculates the distribution and maps it out into a printout. Imagine, being able to map out people's activities within an entire area of a city, and reading the population density in real time. You could read the beating heart of the city.”

He continued. “The second category. It can also manipulate and broadcast signal waves to those with corresponding devices carried by individuals, using electromagnetic fields. For instance, it could broadcast Morse code directly into select people's heads in real time. As you can imagine, the potential for application is huge.”

“But,” Uncle Harold said, grimacing, “unfortunately, that includes military use. Because of its immense power, I do not want this being sold to a weapons manufacturer like Decima. Can you imagine the destruction that would be facilitated by something like this in a battlefield?"

Root was dumbstruck. "It's...” She couldn’t make out the words to what she wanted to say. Instead, she said, “Can you show it to me?"

Uncle Harold waved her off. "No. I cannot. I'm the only person in this ship that knows where it is hidden, and it must remain that way for safety and security reasons."

"But Uncle Harold, just for a moment, a glimpse..."

"Samantha. I must get going now, back to my room. I must think of a way to fix this new financial situation."

With that, Uncle Harry gathered his coat and left, wrapped up in his own world again. Root looked at him limp away and disappear into the carriage.

She stood incredibly still for some time, but her mind was racing like mad in all directions, like when she made her own batteries for the first time when she was seven years old.

 

_A machine._

 

_Like no other._

 

She had to find it.

 

\--

 

Back in her room, Root was lounging in her divan, her mind heavily preoccupied. No, obsessed. A new, singular beacon had entered her mind, and it took over her being.

 _A machine._ A glorious, brilliant invention of wires and metal, lying dormant in the very ship that she was traveling in. One that would change the world. She felt destined to face it, to touch it, to _meet_ it.

How would she go about trying to find it?

She couldn't go about it alone. A woman walking about within the bowels of the ship by herself will surely raise some eyebrows. She needed someone to accompany her, at least as an excuse, and if possible, as an additional set of eyes and hands.

John's face came into her mind, like a rolling potato. She quickly waved the image away. _No._

Her thoughts then traveled to the strong hands that lifted her up from falling into the dark depths.

_Sameen._

The ill-tempered, raven-haired beauty who seemed to always bring her back to solid ground.

Root's cheeks suddenly burst into flames, as she remembered that moment from night before. She did not know, could not say what she was thinking, exactly, only that it was vivid. One moment, she was staring into Sameen's eyes, then she felt the curtains shrouding the woman in front of her were being drawn apart, and she could see into who she really was. It excited her, like the sour burn of electricity, and her eyes traveled at their own initiative down her nose, the curves of her upper lip, and onto the fullness of her bottom lips. She remembered that she wanted to taste them. Like how Sameen savored her cake at dinner, she wanted to savor her too.

She remembered Sameen’s lips being warm, slightly moist, and how they parted slightly to let her own lips delve further in.

It was unlike any kiss she'd experienced before in her younger years, with a few boys, always slimy and a bit handsy, which she'd take care of by stomping on their foot. She pushed away the memories of kissing John altogether (those were dark times). What she now realized was that she's never felt that way before as she had as she kissed her. More than anything, it felt right.

But as their lips separated, she was struck by the utter alienness of what she was doing. _What would people think?_ What would Uncle Harold think? What if someone was watching them? It was more than she could bear.

Now, as she lounged, she felt a twinge of consternation as she wondered what Sameen thought of her. Of their little moment. Root had been torn between her social obligations and her desires, as she had always been. But now, there was a new confidence within her, after breaking up with John, which was something that she once thought that she could never do. What Root knew at that moment was that she wanted to see her again, her little firecracker, and this search for the machine was the exact opportunity to be near her again. To perhaps confirm that she would want to be near her too.

She felt that this machine will open a new chapter her life, and she knew that she wanted Sameen there with her for this, if she was willing.

That settled things. She was going to go see Sameen Shaw.

 

\--

 

"I was searching for you all afternoon."

Shaw jumped. That voice again. She did not turn around, though. If she did, she might change her mind about cutting her off.

"What do you want?" Shaw barked.

"Mr. Fusco said I'd find you here...I came here to ask you something."

"Look, I don't think this is going to work. Please, just leave me alone."

She heard a deep sigh, a sound that dug somewhat painfully into her chest.

"Sameen, can we talk about what happened last night?"

"There's no need. I'd rather just let it be."

Root was quiet for a beat. "If that's what you want, I'll respect your wishes. But...may I ask your help with something?"

There was a desperation in her voice that violently tugged at Shaw. She finally turned around toward her, but still made sure to avoid eye contact. Even as she averted the worst of her effects, Root was still a radiating ball of emotions, and Shaw dug her nails into her palms. It was all she could do to keep her resolve from wisping away.

"What is it?"

"I need your help in finding something hidden on the ship."

"That sounds very vague. More specifically?"

"A machine, something that my uncle built."

"Still vague. Anything else?"

"That's all I've got."

"Look, is this some excuse to get me to follow you around?"

"No, I really do need your help."

"Why don't you ask your uncle?"

"He wouldn't tell me, and once he's made up his mind, you can't change it."

Shaw was quite torn. She wanted to help, she really did--but she didn't trust herself to do the right thing if they spent more time together, searching for this elusive thing that could be anywhere on this humongous ship.

"Look, ask your fiancé. I can't help you."

"John and I broke our engagement."

At that, Shaw snapped up her gaze to meet Root's eyes. "What?"

"We're no longer getting married. I can't ask him. Could you help me, please?"

"What...I don't even know. I have no idea what's going on, but this is too complicated. My answer is no."

Root looked lost and crest-fallen. Shaw wanted to shake her or hug her, to somehow erase that expression away.

But then she heard the worst words Root could possibly say.

"What if I paid you?"

Shaw's blood ran cold. "Absolutely not. Goodbye." She turned to leave, anger burning in her eyes.

"Wait, I'm so sorry Sameen, I didn't mean it like that. What if I commission something from you, like we discussed before? You can draw something for me, and I can pay you, and perhaps you would then consider helping me. Would you think about it?"

Shaw was still furious, but she nonetheless stopped and rolled the idea around in her head. She was always looking for new commissions, to boost her financial situation after spending everything she had on the ship's board. In her anger, she found new confidence that she could keep this woman's...whatever at bay. If she kept it strictly professional, this might just work out.

"What do you want me to draw?"

"My portrait, maybe?"

"How much are you willing to pay?"

At that moment, Shaw realized, she'd already given in to Root's request.

 _Great._ This is going to end well.

 

\--

 

Root led them back to her room, and Sameen entered cautiously, holding her sketch pad.

"Before you start, can you show me some of your work?"

"Sure..." Sameen sat down next to her on the divan, and Root noted, she was being careful to leave plenty of physical distance between them. She started flipping through her sketchbook slowly, giving a rather rehearsed-sounding pitch about her style and background.

"I was taught how to paint by my neighbor, Mr. Emerson, who in his earlier days was a moderately well-known painter and draughtsman. After that training, I began going to galleries and copying old masters' works, mainly Italian and French."

"But your style...it's very modern."

"Yes, a couple years ago, I've had a chance to visit an exhibition in London, a show of French art called _Manet and the Post-Impressionists_ , and it was the most beautiful and wonderous thing I've ever seen, and since then, I've been working in developing my style in that direction."

"I saw it too. It made a quite a stir in London society."

"Did you like it?"

"I loved it. I didn't know what I was looking at, but it affected me greatly. The colors, and the bold lines..."

As Sameen flipped through the sketchbook, Root suddenly spotted something and placed her hand on hers to stop the page from turning.

"This...I love this sketch." It was a nude woman, lounging on a bed, being looked at by a maid, with a black cat at her feet. The woman in the picture looked straight out onto the viewer, seemingly holding on to the viewer’s gaze.

A smile crept up on Sameen. "That's my sketch of Manet's _Olympia_. It's a figure of a reclining nude, probably a Parisian prostitute. It was a topic of many conversations." She continued. "Rather than depicting an ideal figure of a goddess as is the norm, Manet instead drew a working woman, subverting expectations about the female nude. I also like to think that she was using him, as much as he was using her."

Root traced the figure's outlines with her sight--no superfluous curves or enhancements courtesy of the typical male gaze, just planar and direct, the way Root wanted to see herself.

"I want to be drawn like that."

Sameen shifted uncomfortably next to her. "Well, yeah, we don't have to make it exactly in that style, we could add some...clothes."

Root looked at her unflinchingly. "Draw me like one of your French girls." Her voice was quiet but commanding. "In that exact style, that pose."

Sameen was turning into somewhat of a purplish beet color.

"I'll sit for you on this divan, why don't you pull up that chair there and start setting up?"

Root got up and got behind the screen at the far end of the room, and changed into just her kimono. Her heart was thumping uncontrollably in her chest. She stepped out, and stopped in front of the divan. Then, she pulled on the string keeping the kimono closed, took it off, and draped it on the back of the divan. She then lounged, imitating the pose of the woman in the sketch.

"Is that good enough for you?"

"Umm, okay, cross your feet...place your left hand on your...yeah, okay, and maybe place that kimono next to you and hold it slightly with your right hand...yeah, that's it."

Sameen started to sketch, but the pencil slipped out of her fingers and fell to the floor. She picked it up, mumbling an apology. Root stifled a laugh.

"Are you comfortable there?"

"Just fine."

She heard Sameen mutter under the breath, “I've been in worse places.”

 

\--

 

"Okay, finished. Come take a look?"

Root put her kimono back on, and sat next to Shaw. Shaw's mind was still preoccupied with the drawing, so she only notice too late that Root was quite uncomfortably close as she leaned in to see the work. Her long, brown and glossy hair fell across the patterned silk, and Shaw swallowed rather thickly.

"Mmmm, I love it. It's really wonderful."

"Thanks." Shaw heard every bristle of fabric and smelled every bit of that slight perfume of Root's shampoo, as Root's slender hands reached out to hold the sketch pad. As soon as the pad was in Root's hands, Shaw let it go and sprang up from the divan, stiff like a toy soldier. "Well, if that's all, I think I'm ready to go look for that machine."

"Hold on..." Root said, her eyes still lovingly sweeping at the drawing. "Just a moment...I'll dress shortly."

Shaw stood, looking at her, transfixed. Her long lashes, the cliff of her cheekbones, the length of her neck extending into her delicate shoulders...her languid torso, the stretch of her svelte legs...these features, after she drew them, became somehow more subtle and more exquisite than before. She knew then, that there was not a shred of free will left in her at this point, if Root were to ask her for something.

Root left the sketch pad on the divan, and went to dress herself behind the screen. Shaw picked up the pad and carefully took off the drawing from its pages, leaving it on the divan.

"Come here, I want to show you something."

Shaw was alarmed, but as if pulled by a rope, she followed the voice. Thankfully, Root was dressed, and Shaw almost fell over as the tension drained from her. She noticed that in her hands, Root was holding up some strange looking contraption.

"What is it?"

"It's something I made...you showed me your work, so I want to show you what I do on my free time."

It was about the twice the size of a fist, and looked like some kind of a bulky kitchen tool that can be held with one hand, with two short prongs sticking out at the end. It was covered in dull brown paint.

"What is that?"

Smiling, Root pressed its side with her thumb. Shaw jerked back as a quick flash of light lit the room, then a thin blue line of electricity came to life between the two prongs. A buzzing noise, like a fly caught behind a screen.

"It's a non-lethal weapon, functioning on electricity. I call it the electrolizer."

"What does it do?"

"If I press this end on you, you will receive a strong electric shock, and you will be incapacitated for awhile because your muscles will freeze up and spasm. The blue line that you see is electric current flowing between the two electrodes, powered by the battery inside."

"Why do you need a weapon like that??"

"I just wanted to show you what I do for fun. And plus, when we go look for the machine, we might need a little protection, seeing as it will just be the two of us."

Shaw stared at Root with whole new eyes. Root was transformed. Her irises glistened with excitement, and her face, her smile no longer looked innocent, but dangerous, almost serpentine, lit by the uncanny, unsteady blue light. Shaw did not know what to think, but felt her desire for Root turning a shade, or ten, darker, and more carnal.

"Shall we go, then?" Root prompted, breezily.

 

\--

 

They snuck in and headed to the cargo hold, passing through one of the boiler room, both marvelling at the heat and glistening men shoveling coal into the orange and yellow flames of the boilers that powered the ship. Root had guessed that the cargo hold was the most likely place for the machine, because Uncle Harold would not have been able to hide something rather bulky and complicated anywhere else on the ship.

Both of them were quiet. Words were not necessary. Earlier, they had bared their true selves in front of the other. In her case, she had shown Sameen her bare flesh as well. There was a new understanding between them, and although no words were exchanged, their movements were in synch with the other's.

As they entered and wandered through the maze of cargo, they came upon a brand new Renault touring car.

"Uncle Harold bought this for our trip over. With John's money, of course."

She hadn't had time to look at it properly before, but in this cargo hold, it was quite impressive. It was big, sleek, and it was inviting them in.

"Come on," Root entered the driver's seat, as Sameen went into the passenger seat.

Root ran her fingers across the smooth surface of the car's polished wood and metal. Sameen's eyes followed her gliding hands. Root slid her hands along the steering wheel, then along the shifter, and as she reached the tip, Sameen extended her index finger toward it, as if she wanted to touch it too. Root slowly continued the movement of her arms, and skated her fingers over Sameen's index finger, then her forearms, her upper arms, her shoulders, her neck--

Sameen abruptly grabbed her wrist then, hard, stopping her movement. They stared at each other, connected by Sameen's grip. Root looked into Sameen's eyes, her hard and stupefying eyes, and stared, and stared. All of a sudden, Sameen grabbed her collar roughly with the other hand, and pulled her mouth to her lips.

Root was electrified. Sameen's kiss was not like theirs before--it was rough, and searching, and needy. She felt Sameen's tongue slip into her parted lips, and sucked, wanting to taste her. Sameen tasted of savory, sweet bread. She extended her own tongue as they kissed, and it was immediately swallowed by Sameen's hungry lips, which kneaded and pulled, and Root felt her heat rising.

Soon, she felt her free hand floating up to Sameen's chest, and sliding in between her blouse and her skin beneath. She felt the goosebumps on Sameen's skin, as her cold fingers roamed over the soft ridges of her sternum, then her shoulders. As she slid her hands down further, starting to feel the plumpness of Sameen's bosom, Sameen separated from her lips and pushed her back slightly with her arms. They looked at each other, breathes ragged and hot.

"Have you been intimate with anyone before? With either man or woman?" Sameen asked, softly.

Root looked at her with uncertainty. "No."

"…do you want to?"

Root took a moment to think it over. "Yes."

"You know the basics of what this involves, right?"

"At least with men, yes. I've seen the illustrations in my father's anatomy books, and also one of my house workers, Frankie, let me borrow some of her erotica books in secret."

Sameen laughed. Root frowned at her.

"I've also seen, travelling by coach at night in London, women and men in shadows, against the walls..."

"Well, you're a regular expert then."

Embarrassed, Root pinched Sameen's thin skin near her sternum, hard.

Sameen flickered her gaze onto hers. "Do that again, but lower."

As instructed, Root moved her hands down, near the top edge of Sameen's chemise, and grabbing her skin, pinched again. Hard.

"Again, but lower."

Root slowly slid her hands into her chemise, encircling her breast, and finding her nipple with her thumb and forefinger, squeezed in a rolling motion. Hard. Sameen moaned softly.

Her eyes half closed in pleasure, Sameen leaned in, and kissed her very softly on the lips. Root squeezed again, eliciting another moan from the other woman's lips as they kissed. Sameen eventually started to slowly move toward the back seat of the car, gently pulling Root along with her.

Sameen briefly separated from Root as she settled in the back, pulling Root towards her by her wrist. Once Root joined her on the seat, Sameen reached out to her waist and pulled her underneath, positioning herself above. She then proceeded to kiss her again, a bit more fervently now, one hand cupping Root's jaw and the other hurriedly unbuttoning the front of her dress. Sameen then kissed down her neck, and finding the space between her ear and her neck, flicked her tongue behind her earlobes.

"I'm so glad you're not wearing a corset," Sameen whispered in her ear.

"I didn't think I needed to, we were going into the ship's cargo hold, not going to meet people--" Root stopped mid-sentence and gasped as Sameen's hand finally found her breasts and rolled her palm against her erect nipple.

Seemingly prompted by that gasp of breath, Sameen left her neck and moved her head toward Root's chest. Grabbing and pushing up Root's dainty breast up with her hand back over the thin cotton of her chemise, Sameen found Root's covered nipple with her mouth, wet it with the tip of her tongue, and when the cotton was supple, sucked. Root squirmed with blinding pleasure.

Throughout her life, Root had never imagined this. She was in the back seat of a car, on the ship in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean, being courted, and well, fucked, by a woman. She felt herself lose control again, and again, as Sameen Shaw found new ways to make her body ill with lust. When Sameen's hands eventually found the wetness beneath her drawers, and slid her finger in, then two, Root was beside herself with a primeval need, and felt her hips move along with the rhythm of Sameen's arm. At that moment, Root wanted nothing more desperately than to let Sameen's hunger and experience consume her, and she let herself go completely.

 

\--

 

Afterwards, Shaw lay on top of Root with her ear to her chest, listening to the steady rhythm of Root's heart along with her own pulse as it thumped in her eardrums. She noticed the small pendant that Root wore, and pushed it slightly with her fingers.

"What is it?"

"It was a gift, from my father." And she didn't say any more, so Shaw left it at that.

Shaw's eyes wandered and she smirked as she looked toward the front and saw that the windows were fogged up. But soon, it got rather chilly. Both were mostly dressed, but with pieces loose all about, so she gently began sorting out Root's clothing first, tugging things back in and buttoning her up. Shaw felt protective, which surprised her.

Root was...beautiful beyond what she'd imagined, both during and after their physical encounter. And Sameen Shaw, who did not like to settle down, for some reason, at least at that moment, felt like she could be with this woman forever. It was rather disturbing.

She blamed it on hormones.

As she dressed herself back up again too, Root smiled sheepishly at her. She was disgustingly cute. So Shaw couldn't think of anything else to do but to kiss her again.

But soon after their lips met, Root froze, and pulling out of the kiss, turned around to look behind her, as though something caught her attention. She then leaned forward to scrutinize something on the panel of the door.

"What is it?"

"I felt something with my fingertips, some kind of rough engraving. Very unbecoming for this car."

"Can you see it?"

"Wait..." Root pulled out the electrolizer from her bag, and pushing its button (Shaw flinched; that thing is never going to make her comfortable), used the light from it to read what was etched on the panel. Then Root released the button, and they were once again sitting in the near-dark. But something had changed in Root.

"What's wrong?"

Root was silent.

"Let me see."

Root hesitated a little, but once again held the electrolizer up against the panel, and lit it up for Shaw. She squinted her eyes and read the rough etching, which formed recognizable words.

"Nathaniel Arthur Groveson? Who's that?"

"Nathaniel Arthur Groves was my father's name." Root was very still.

Shaw didn't know what to say, but the silence was oppressing, so she asked the first question that came to her mind. She felt stupid as she said it. "But why does that say 'Groveson'?"

"I don't know." With that, Root reached out and with her right index finger, found the etching again and scratched at the last two letters.

At that moment, a whirring noise started, and a small part of the panel sprang forward, revealing a set of metal buttons with letters on them. Root and Shaw look at them closely with the electrolizer. It was the alphabet, arranged in order.

"What do we do now?"

"I think...it might be some kind of a lock, with a code."

"Well...are we going to try to guess what the password is?"

"I might have an idea." With that, Root pushed in the letters R, O, O again, then T.

Something clicked behind the panel.

Then the whirring, clicking, and chiming started all at once, seemingly coming from everywhere around them. They sat, shocked, unable to move.

Then, Root screamed, clutching her head. "There's something moving in my head!” She twisted her body and curled up, shaking all over.

“Stop it!"

Shaw didn't know what to do. She'd never felt more helpless.

 

\--

 

There were strange lights and patterns flickering in front of Root's eyes, the space in front of her seemed to be dancing and swerving and the ship, the ship, it seemed to be quaking, and the universe itself seemed to be collapsing. Her head felt like it was bulging, her eyeballs seemed to be bulging, and her skull felt like it was about to explode, like it was about to crack, and splatter, all over the fine upholstery.

Then, a curious thing. The random lines, and patterns, and lights, they started to merge into something more recognizable, and her head was pounding much less, although the pulsing, the pulsing persisted. She began to see the outline of the ship, and around it, dots were moving about, or, were they actually figures? Then she saw in front of her, the outline of something, someone, frantically moving and turning, and then she knew, it was Sameen, it was Sameen that she was seeing, but in a different way. And she saw some other figures approaching, maybe 50 yards away, she counted four, and then she knew. All about her, surrounding her, were these outlines made of dots and lines, pulsing, and moving, and seemingly interacting. She was seeing people move about within the ship.

But as she slowly came to grasp with this strange way of seeing, and just beginning to question why--the pulsing stopped, and everything fell back into darkness. And silence.

"Root? Root? Are you okay?" Sameen's voice urgently called her.

Root lay on the seat of the car, breathing erratically, and unable to say a single thing. She slowly formed her mouth to say something, and it seemed to be working, when Sameen suddenly covered her mouth with her hand and motioned her to be quiet with the other.

Then she heard male voices nearby. She strained to hear, and they seemed to be moving closer to the car.

"...but Mr. Greer, we've looked everywhere. There is no trace of the thing."

"It must be in the ship. I know for a fact that it is. You just have to locate it."

"We have been searching for three entire days, with the crew on rotation. We can't find it."

All the footsteps stopped all at once.

"I've had enough of these games." The cold voice of Mr. Greer rang throughout the cargo hold.

"Bring me Harold Finch."

Root's blood turned to ice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 3: lololollol I got carried away. I did squeeze a lot into this chapter, including odd historical details here and there, so I'm quite curious about your thoughts. Please leave comments and/or questions if you have any!


	4. Boombox

Voices seemed inordinately loud in the cargo bay.  
  
"Communicate to me once you have secured Mr. Finch, and take him to the backup generator room. I'll meet you there. Be discreet, we don't want to raise any alarm, and make sure we wouldn't be interrupted. Are my instructions clear?" Mr. Greer's words slithered through the cold air.  
  
"Yes, sir."  
  
"Now, go."  
  
Shaw listened while the footsteps started to grow fainter. Next to her, Root managed to wheeze out, "We have to get to Uncle Harold and warn him."  
  
"Where would he be?"  
  
"What time is it?"  
  
"I don't know...it must be around 9 or 10 o'clock?"  
  
"Then he'll most likely be in his room. Let's go."  
  
As Shaw reached for the door handle, Root grabbed her arm. "Wait. Did you turned off the machine, or did it turn off on its own?"  
  
"I turned it off by entering the same code as before into the door panel."  
  
With that, Root leaned forward, and reaching over to the exposed key pad, she punched in the code again. As the whirring and chiming started up, Root grimaced in pain. Shaw was concerned. _Why was she going through this again?_  
  
"What are you doing, Root?"  
  
"I'm trying something," Root opened the door as the noises from inside the car settled down to a low-pitched hum. She stepped out of the vehicle, and stood still outside for a beat, her head cocked slightly. Her eyes had a glossy, disconnected look. Shaw watched in dismay, leaning partially out the door. _Had Root gone crazy?_  
  
"It still works outside the vehicle," Root said.  
  
"What still works?"  
  
"I think it will be useful to keep the machine on. I'll try to explain on the way. Let's go."  
  
Shaw got out of the vehicle and they shut the door. With the door closed, the hum became only noticeable with careful listening. The car must be insulated, Shaw noted.  
  
"Where's your uncle's room?"  
  
"It's around the corner from mine."  
  
"Let's hurry."  
  
Shaw started to rapidly advance through the cargo hold, leading the way. But as she glanced back, she saw that Root's gait was a bit unsteady. Shaw slowed to a stop.  
  
"Are you okay?"  
  
  
\--  
  
  
Frankly, Root was _not_ okay. It was an understatement to say that she was overwhelmed.

On top of her concern for Uncle Harold and the Machine, she had to deal with the logistics of functioning with the extra sensory perception. She had to adjust to navigating with the machine's detection mechanism. Her regular vision was still there, but her senses were expanded through the help of the machine, which allowed her to map the spaces around her and the figures moving about within them. It was a deluge of information, but she'd learned to stop trying to control the flow, and to rather let it take over while she concentrated on following Sameen's footsteps. This letting go, she noticed, allowed her to focus her detection and scanning to specific areas of her choosing.  
  
She'd also noticed, that there was a warm sensation lingering about at her chest. She finally looked down. Her pendant. She touched it as she moved along. It was hot to the touch.  
  
A shining star. Nathaniel Arthur Groveson.  
  
_Father_.  
  
As Root thought of him, she felt a gradual warmth rising in her belly. It awakened her to a new sense of confidence. All the various pieces, they began to fit together as she pondered how best to respond to Sameen’s deceptively simple question.  
  
"We need to keep moving. I'm okay--I'm just getting used to the machine's effects,” she managed to say. Shaw looked back at her, her eyes uncertain, but she started to move forward again.  
  
Root followed, noting a fresh assertiveness in her own steps.  
  
  
\--  
  
  
Shaw’s feet were moving, but her mind was firmly focused on the woman behind her. She was full of questions, but they had no time to go over them all. She chose an urgent one.  
  
"What is the machine doing to you?"  
  
Root took a moment to answer. "What I'm about to say is going to sound quite strange, but just trust me, okay?"  
  
"Okay." Did she have any other choice really? She was already neck-deep in this crazy, so might as well give into it.  
  
"In the plainest terms…the machine allows me to see through walls. I think it gives me an extra sense, allowing me to detect the electromagnetic fields generated by people's bodies. At least, I think that's what's happening, based on what Uncle Harold's told me about the machine and what I'm seeing."  
  
Shaw was listening, but she could not register the meaning of Root’s words. "What?"  
  
"I can see people through walls."  
  
Shaw tried to digest this information as she kept moving. The sounds that came from Root still didn't make any sense. _At all._  
  
"In the corridor ahead, as we exit, we will see two men turning the corner, walking away from us."  
  
Shaw opened the door out of the cargo bay, just in time to see two shipmen turn the corner and disappear up ahead.  
  
"How..."  
  
"Just keep moving."  
  
They entered the boiler room again. As Shaw tried to come to grasp with what Root's said, Root's voice came from behind.  
  
"We need a plan, in case we don't get to Uncle Harold first."  
  
Still reeling, Shaw barely managed to grasp onto Root's words. "They said they're head to the backup engine room, correct?"  
  
"But what are we going to do once we get there? Fight them, just the two of us?"  
  
"I think we need something a little more deadly than your lightning stick."  
  
"I have an idea where we could get some pistols."  
  
_Wow, that accelerated fast._  
  
"Do you even know how to fire them?"  
  
"Yes. Uncle Harold is opposed to ladies using guns, but my father wasn't. He taught me how to shoot."  
  
Shaw was moving forward, but her mind was being pulled in all other directions. _Root_. The woman who danced with her, who kissed her, who lay with her. She was transitioning before her eyes. First, she turns out to be some sort of an electricity wizard who makes weapons for fun, then she somehow learns to see through walls -- through walls, what does that even mean -- and then now this, that she’s some sort of a gun enthusiast. Shaw's heart fluttered like mad, her head was spinning uncontrollably. She did not know how to deal with all this.  
  
"Have you shot a gun before?" Root tossed back her query.  
  
"I learned a thing or two from an old friend of mine. Yeah." Shaw was pulled back from her daze somewhat, as she briefly thought of the deadpan curmudgeon who'd taught her about guns.  
  
"I find that a bit odd, for an artist." Root quipped.  
  
"Well your hobbies are a wee bit odd, for a lady," Shaw managed to fire back.  
  
"Touché."  
  
Shaw thought back to the matter at hand. "Is it going to be difficult to access, the guns?"  
  
"Depends on your definition of 'difficult'."  
  
"How's that?"  
  
"The difficult part is, we'll need to go see John. He has an annoying habit of carrying an arsenal with him wherever he goes." Shaw could practically feel Root's eye rolling. "It might finally come in handy today."  
  
"Let's just hope that old creep didn't get to your uncle first."  
  
  
\--  
  
  
Root took over the lead when they arrived near the first-class corridors. As they ran through the corridor, she pointed out John’s door to Sameen as they passed it by. "This is John's room, if we have to stop by later."  
  
They continued until Root reached Uncle Harold’s door. She stared through it, spotting a figure sitting at a desk near the far end of the room, a cluster of pulsing lights.  
  
"Uncle Harold's alone inside." She didn't have time to respond the slack-jawed look that Shaw gave her. Knocking, she entered the room without waiting for Uncle Harold's answer. She noticed that Sameen stayed back just outside the door, keeping watch.  
  
As expected, Uncle Harold turned toward the door with a sore look on his face. "Miss Groves, what is this? It's rather late and--" He stopped mid-sentence when he saw her expression.  
  
"Uncle Harry. We don't have time, just listen. Mr. Greer's coming to take you away. We need to run and hide, right now."  
  
Uncle Harold took a moment to register this, but almost immediately, he took a key and opened one of the locked desk drawers, pulling out a small black box the size of a book. Pulling it carefully into the fold of his left arm, he said, "Let's head to the first-class lounge. It should still be relatively crowded, and I don't think Mr. Greer would dare do anything too conspicuous."  
  
As they crossed the room, Root detected six outlines approaching, moving fast, just around the corner from them. "Too late! Sameen, come inside and lock the door!"  
  
Sameen ran in at the knick of time, locking the door. She then grabbed a wooden chair and jammed it in underneath the door knob.  
  
Uncle Harold sprung for the telephone, but his face fell as he listened with the receiver to his ears. "The line's dead."  
  
"Are there any other way out of this room?"  
  
"I'm afraid not. We're trapped."  
  
They turned to look at the door again, as they heard a key sliding into the lock and turning.  
  
"They must have gotten a hold of a master key," Uncle Finch said, his voice tight.  
  
Root reached into her bag, and took out her electrolizer. She wasn't going to let them get to Uncle Harold and the Machine without a fight. She looked through the door, at the bright, pulsing outlines of the figures outside, getting ready to enter. She felt surprisingly calm. She looked at Sameen, who looked back gravely, her hands curled up in fists. _Sorry for involving you in this, dearest._  
  
"Well the good news is, I'll finally get to test out my toy," Root said. "Other than on myself, that is."  
  
  
\--  
  
  
Shaw woke up with her left cheek on the cold, tiled floor. With the corner of her eyes, she spotted some blood on the floor. _Oh no._ She remembered.  
  
"Root?" She croaked. No answer.  
  
She tried to get up, but she realized that her hands were bound behind her. She tried to wiggle her legs. Her feet were bound as well. She tucked her knees up and swung her torso upward with her arm pushing against the floor, which left her in a sitting position. She was in Mr. Finch's bathroom, and the door in front of her provided a view into the scene of disarray.  
  
"Root? Are you there?" Silence.  
  
She leaned back against the bathtub behind her, and tested the rope that bound her wrists. It was somewhat tight, but there was still a bit of a wiggle room. They must have left in a hurry.  
  
She wished that she could have done more earlier. She'd kneed one of the goons in the groin, then turned around and hit another with a quick punch to his Adam’s apple. She also grabbed a pen from Uncle Harold's desk and stabbed one of them in the shoulder. Root had managed to electrolize one of them, and in the confusion as he fell, she was able to shocked another. After the second victim, however, the ones still left standing caught on and grabbed her, tearing her weapon away. Mr. Finch tried to beat them away with an umbrella, but he was no match for the goons' physicality and youth. For the three of them, there were just too many.  
  
Now, Shaw seemed to be the only one left in the suite.  
  
Shaw struggled with the rope that bound her wrists for about ten minutes, and in that time, managed to free her hands. She quickly unbound her ankles too, and ran out into the room, only to confirm her worst fear. They took Root.  
  
The world seemed to spin around her.  
  
_Find Root._  
  
As she crossed the room toward the door, she spotted the black box on Mr. Finch's desk. He must have left it there before they came in. Shaw took a detour to the box and opened it. Four small, curved metal contraptions, shaped somewhat like elongated snail shells with a rubber hook attached. She had no idea what they were, but they seemed important. She closed the box and stuffed it into her waist band at her back. As she did so, she saw a glimpse of herself in the room mirror. There was dried up blood down her forehead. She quickly went back into the bathroom and washed her face in the sink. Looking at her reflection at the sink vanity, she realized she needed a plan. A plan to get Root back.  
  
But what plan? She laughed at the absurdity of all this. This was beyond anything she'd ever thought she'd be a part of. Well at the least, she thought, I need a weapon to take on those goons.  
  
John Reese, let's see what you've got.  
  
  
\--  
  
  
She broke into Mr. Reese's apartment easily. Shaw was rather good at picking locks, one of the many skills she'd picked up from a crazy-seeming, unkempt man she'd met rummaging through the garbage when she was twelve. Claiming to have been a spy for the Union army during the American civil war, the man became her friend, of sorts. They shared an appreciation for silence, and she'd sneak her mom's cooking to him on occasion. He'd taught her skills in exchange, like lockpicking and shooting guns. One day, they found him in the local river. They said he was a drunk who fell in and drowned, but she knew better. He didn't drink. _They_ had found him.  
  
Hersh.  
  
Whenever Shaw picked locks, or picked up a gun, she'd think of him.  
  
Memory of her friend lingering around her like smoke, Shaw refocused her thoughts. Now, where would a man like Mr. Reese hide his guns?  
  
She spotted a large black trunk at the foot of the bed. That's a good place to start.  
  
The trunk was locked, but it was no match for her picking prowess. It was full of handguns, arranged carefully by type. It was pretty spectacular. If she had more time, she would have taken the time to examine each and every one.  
  
Her eyes gravitated toward a very sleek, exotic looking semi-automatic pistol with the inscription Walther on the side. She picked it up and looked it over. A very nice .32. It'll do, she thought, until her eyes were snared by a large semi-automatic in black finish, definitely a military grade large-calibur weapon. Colt, it read on the side. She picked that up instead. Hersh would appreciate it, she knew.  
  
Shaw found and packed the .45 calibur bullets into her seam pockets. As she was heading out, however, the door knob turned. Stopping, she raised the gun toward the door and waited.  
  
Mr. Reese stepped inside. He paused when he noticed her standing in the middle of the room with the gun in her hand. He slowly raised his arms.  
  
"Don't shoot."  
  
"Mr. Reese. I'm sorry, but I'm going to need to borrow a gun. We don't know each other well, but trust me, I've got a very good reason."  
  
"And what reason is that?"  
  
"Mr. Finch and Root - Miss Groves - have been kidnapped."  
  
Mr. Reese did not move, but Shaw thought she saw a slight glint in his eyes. "By whom?"  
  
"Mr. Greer and his men."  
  
"How do I know you're telling the truth?"  
  
"Look, I know about the Machine. You know how valuable it is, so it's not much of a stretch to say, bad men would do anything to get their hands on it."  
  
He didn't skip a beat. "So what's your plan?"  
  
"I'm going to figure it out as I go along, but I know where they're being kept. That's why I need a gun."  
  
"Okay. But I'm going with you."  
  
They looked at each other, sizing each other up. Eventually, they reached a silent understanding. Shaw nodded, and Mr. Reese put his hands down, visibly relaxing. He quickly packed a few guns, some loaded magazines and more bullets into a leather bag.  
  
Then, he held up another gun toward Shaw. "Give me that gun and take this instead."  
  
"You saying that I can't carry a big gun?" Shaw said in annoyance, still holding on to the .45.  
  
"No, this .32's more mobile, plus it's better if we're using the same calibur bullet. Also, it may not be the best idea to go around shooting a big gun in the middle of a ship."  
  
"You think a .32 versus a .45 is going to make the boat sink slower, if we shoot a hole through the hull?"  
  
"They said the hull is about 2 centimeters thick. A bullet probably wouldn't go through that, but .32 might be a safer bet."  
  
Shaw rolled her eyes. "Fine, though in that case, can I carry the Walther?"  
  
"Okay, but you better be careful. It's a rare prototype."  
  
"Got it, it's a precious snowflake," Shaw said, dripping with sarcasm. She replaced her stock of bullets with .32s. "Let's go."  
  
  
\--  
  
  
Root turned her head slightly, to glance at the gun barrel pointed to her head. She was seated in a chair, with one of Mr. Greer's men standing over her with the said weapon. They were in the backup generator room. She watched Mr. Greer and his pulsing outline as he approached Uncle Finch, who was about 10 feet away, also sitting with a gun pointed to his head by a guard.  
  
Root concentrated on the electromagnetic field readings in the areas surrounding them. In the room’s only exit, which lay ahead of her, there were two guards posted outside. In the room itself, there were six, two at the door, two guarding over her and Uncle Finch, and two standing in between them and the door. Escape would be next to impossible.  
  
"Mr. Finch. Glad to have this chance to talk with you again." Greer's mouth was turned up at the corners. "I wish you'd agreed to meet under more friendly terms. But alas, here we are."  
  
"What are your demands, Mr. Greer?"  
  
"Straight to the chase. Well Mr. Finch, I'm sure you can make an educated guess."  
  
"I wouldn't give up the Machine." _This can't be happening._ Root felt despondent for a second, then quickly felt her anger rising.  
  
"You won't have to. We would like to work with you, Mr. Finch. After all, you built it, and your expertise would be highly valuable to us."  
  
"After kidnapping me and my niece, you think I would agree to work with you?"  
  
"It was worth a try, at least before resorting to other, less pleasant measures. How about it, Mr. Finch?"  
  
"The machine in your hands would potentially destroy countless lives."  
  
"Countless lives are lost every day already, even without any of my company's intervention. It's the natural order of things."  
  
"No, the technology will accelerate the rate of death and destruction immeasurably."  
  
"Are you a connoisseur of art, Mr. Finch?"  
  
"I thought we were discussing death, Mr. Greer."  
  
"There is a very good young Italian painter, Filippo Marinetti. Are you familiar with the artist?"  
  
"I don't have a taste for modern art."  
  
"Well. You should look into him. He wrote a very interesting text a few years ago about how art should glorify war. He called war the world's only hygiene. I tend to agree with him."  
  
"That is dangerous nonsense."  
  
"No, it's the apt description of today's world. It's the logical conclusion to the acceleration of human civilization in the past decades. Your machine, it's a part of this spirit. The world is hurling along toward the inevitable. Don't you see that?"  
  
"This machine, it's merely a tool to help us build and to communicate, for a better society."  
  
"Creation and destruction, they're two sides of the same coin, as you will well know. Destruction, it will bring new order to this world."  
  
"Not with the Machine, no. I wouldn't allow you to use it for murder."  
  
"Well Mr. Finch. If your mind is set, I'm afraid I'll have to resort to other avenues of persuasion." Greer turned around to look at Root. His empty smile sent a chill down Root's spine.  
  
" _Don't_ you touch her."  
  
"Mr. Finch. You must understand, I need to use all possible measures at my disposal." With that, Greer casually stepped toward Root.  
  
"Miss Groves. I heard you gave my men a very difficult time."  
  
Root stared back silently.  
  
"I hadn't planned on involving you in this, but one of my men had the very good sense to bring you along."  
  
Greer dug into his coat pocket and brought out Root's electrolizer. "This little handywork. Very impressive. Is it one of your uncle's?"  
  
"No, it's one of mine."  
  
"Must run in the family, I see." Greer pressed the side and allowed the current to run between the electrodes. "Clever girl. I've already tested it on one of my men, and I'm happy to report that it worked quite well. How many volts does it carry? 30,000? 50,000?"  
  
Root saw Uncle Finch staring at the electrolizer, then at Root, with fear in his eyes.  
  
"I wonder about the difference in the effect it would have, if I were to use it on a woman instead." Greer gazed at her, bemused.  
  
Uncle Finch spoke up urgently. "Mr. Greer, this is barbaric. Please, stop."  
  
Root's mind was racing. What can she do? She desperately scanned the room around her. Was there anything that she could use? _Anything?_  
  
She scanned the guard next to her. He had another gun, a small revolver, tucked to his back waist. She would not be able to move fast enough to grab it before he could either physically stop her, or worse, use his main weapon on her. And then there was a matter of the guard next to her uncle, also with his gun at the ready. She calculated the fastest shots she could likely muster between her guard and Uncle Harold's. Two shots, in succession, before the others drew their weapons.  
  
Her heart racing, she thought back to a time and a place far, far away.  
  
_The milk bottles, sitting on the fence. Five feet apart. Pop, pop._  
  
It would be possible, if difficult. If only there was a distraction--she continued scanning around the room and beyond.  
  
Then, she saw. Two figures, approaching the door from the far end of the corridor. Their movements were fast, stealthy. She focused on their energy signatures. One towered over the other. One was female, the other male. The movement, the gait of the tall man--she recognized it. It was John, her lumbering ex-fiance. The other, she realized, was Sameen Shaw.  
  
Root smiled.  
  
"Why, dear Ms. Groves, are you suddenly smiling at me?"  
  
"I wasn't smiling at you."  
  
Two gun shots rang out just outside the door.  
  
The two guards at the front door braced themselves on either side of the exit, drawing their weapons, and two nearest them also turned toward the commotion outside. The guard next to Root turned too, looking toward the noise and aiming his gun in that direction. In that moment, she reached behind the guard, taking his revolver. Without thinking twice, she fired, and fired again at the guard near her uncle. _Pop, pop._  
  
As the guard next to her fell forward and tumbled to the floor, and the other fell backward, Root pointed her gun at Mr. Greer and jumped at him, eventually nestling behind and drawing the revolver against his neck.  
  
"Stop, or I'll shoot him!"  
  
She could scarcely believe what she was doing. Her heart felt like it was ready to jump out of her throat.  
  
But as she stood there, gun drawn at Mr. Greer’s throat, she realized something. What she was feeling in her racing heart, it was no longer fear that was driving it.  
  
It was excitement.  
  
  
\--  
  
  
"When we go in, they'll probably be on either side of the door. I'll take the left, you take the right," said Mr. Reese. Shaw and Mr. Reese were standing over the guards they've shot on either side of the doorway, their weapons raised.  
  
Suddenly, a commotion inside, and shots fired. Shaw and Mr. Reese looked at each other. _Going in._ Mr. Reese burst in through the door, with Shaw trailing right behind.  
  
As they entered, they immediately shot the guards posted on either side of the doorway, who had their backs turned. But as they swung their attention toward the other end of the room, they paused as they encountered a rather unexpected sight.  
  
Root was standing behind Mr. Greer, a revolver against his neck.  
  
"Tell your guards to drop their weapons, or I'll shoot," Root warned.  
  
"All of you, drop your weapons," Mr. Greer said. The two guards left standing lowered their weapons and dropped them on the floor.  
  
"Now, tell them to raise their hands and head to the center of the room."  
  
"You heard the lady."  
  
"Thank you. Now, please drop my weapon Mr. Greer, and raise your hands." The electrolizer fell on the floor with a _clank_. Keeping her gun trained on the old man, she picked up her gadget.  
  
Both Mr. Reese and Shaw were speechless.  
  
"Thanks for coming, you two. Glad you can join the party," Root smiled, her eyes shining. "Could one of you keep an eye on the guards while the other gather up the weapons from these guys? And Uncle Finch, could you help them round up those weapons?"  
  
They silently acquiesced. For her part, Shaw just didn't know what to say, and she suspected it was the same for the others. Mr. Reese kept his gun trained on the two guards, while Shaw and Mr. Finch picked up their guns.  
  
Then suddenly.  
  
_*BOOOOM*_  
  
_*GROAAAAN*_  
  
Their world was rocked by a violent motion. The ship swung and shook back and forth, and the lights flickered. Everything was shaking, moving, and they all struggled to remain on their feet as the floor threatened to spill over.  
  
"What was that?"  
  
"The ship must have hit something." Root stared ahead, her eyes unfixed. "I can't see much beyond the ship's perimeters, but we definitely collided with something."  
  
The alarm started blaring through the loudspeakers.  
  
Root's eyes flit all about, her brows tense. "The ship's crew are running about, we're in trouble. We better get upstairs."  
  
She turned her attention then to Mr. Greer, who continued to stand in front of her, his face unreadable. "We'll have to leave Mr. Greer and his friends, but first, to get us a head start..." With that, Root applied the electrolizer to Mr. Greer's neck. He fell in a fit of spasms. Everyone looked at her in complete shock.  
  
But she didn't stop there. She stepped over his twitching body on the floor, and approached the two guards left standing. They each received the same treatment, and both fell with a thud.  
  
"That should give us a nice lead."  
  
_Well._  
  
This, Shaw thought to herself, is what the full-blown version of those glimpses she caught looked like, enhanced by the Machine and her extra-sensory perception.  
  
On one hand, her rational mind told her to run far, far away from this and never look back. But for some inexplicable reason, she felt a truly immense and intense urge to know what Root’s lips tasted like now.  
  
There’s something wrong with this, she thought.  
  
But then again, Sameen Shaw really, really enjoyed being on the wrong side of things.  
  
  
\--  
  
  
Everything was chaos on the deck.  
  
The group had made it out into the open air, pushing themselves along in the corridors and stairways full of people, a nervous procession that seemed to threaten to break apart and crack at any moment.  
  
Root was scanning through the crowd and the ship, trying to sort through the overwhelming data in the crowded deck to figure out what was going on. But as she did so, she noticed something.  
  
"What is it, Root?" Sameen asked.  
  
"It's odd. There are guards posted at every entrance. And they're not moving. They’re just standing there, as though they’re waiting for something."  
  
"Maybe it's a part of the evacuation plan."  
  
Root focused on their signatures. "No, it's Decima. They must know something."  
  
"How do you know that they’re Decima?" John asked.  
  
"The guards, they're all equipped the same way."  
  
"But how do you know?" Uncle Finch added, with a strange look.  
  
"I can sense them, see through them. The Machine, I'm connected to it, and it feeds me information."  
  
Mr. Finch and Mr. Reese were staring at her. _Not this again._  
  
"What do you mean? The Machine only ever spits out electromagnetic readings or transmits user-generated communications," Uncle Finch blurted out.  
  
"Now there's a third category. I can receive and sense electromagnetic readings directly, in real time."  
  
"How? I never built it that way."  
  
"Uncle Harold, did my father have something to do with the Machine?"  
  
He looked at her, in shock. "Yes, when both Nathan and my sister passed away and I moved into your family estate, I found his laboratory, and within it, the control component of the Machine. I built its current form around it."  
  
"I suspect _this_ is how I'm connected to the Machine," Root said, holding up the pendant at her chest. "My father gave this to me. It seems to allow me to detect the Machine's readings in real time."  
  
Uncle Finch’s lips moved, but no sound came out. Root had never seen her uncle like this. He was utterly, profoundly shaken.  
  
"So does this mean that you can read people's electromagnetic signatures?" John asked.  
  
"Yes, but," Root prompted, "we can marvel at this later. We need to figure out what Decima's up to, and think up a plan."  
  
"They obviously want the Machine," Sameen said. "If the guards aren't moving, perhaps the damage to the ship wasn't as bad as it felt. Do you think it's possible, that Decima may have caused the ship's collision?"  
  
"To gain control of the ship? And to empty it of passengers? It's possible." John conceded.  
  
Uncle Finch finally spoke up again. "There are 16 watertight compartments on the ship. If only one or even two are breached, the ship should still remain floating. And with that, they would be able to empty the ship of passengers and tow it to the nearest port."  
  
"And there, they'll be able to search the ship at their leisure."  
  
They stood, silently pondering over this possibility, which increasingly seemed likely.  
  
Root scanned the ship again to sense any changes. The guards were still there, unmoving. She realized that they could not leave the ship, not if the Machine will fall into the wrong hands.  
  
"We can't let Decima get a hold of the machine." She looked at Uncle Harold. His eyes were slowly filling with trepidation. His neck seemed to turn even stiffer than usual.  
  
When he spoke again, there was a tremor in his voice.  
  
“That means…”  
  
His voice seemed to fail him. He tried again.  
  
"We need to destroy the machine."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 4: Sorry about the delay in update--school's back now and it's kicking my ass. 
> 
> This chapter... Erm, I just want to say that it sounded fine to me in outline form, but seeing it fully written out, I realize that I went really pretty far out with the steampunk POI aspect of this fic...heh. Also there isn't as much Root x Shaw stuff here as before, but I hope the character developments came through. There will definitely be more of the relationship focus in the next one. 
> 
> Also, as you've probably noticed, the ending is going to be quite different from Titanic's. The ship in the story isn't THE Titanic, but rather a fictional ship similar to it. 
> 
> Thanks for reading so far! The next chapter will be the final chapter.

**Author's Note:**

> Chapter 1: This ridiculous mash-up begged me to be written. Thanks for your understanding.


End file.
